Halloween Fright
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock embraces the spirit of Halloween. Will Molly embrace him? Sherlolly


It was late on a Saturday night at the end of October when Dr. Molly Hooper received a text message summoning to the basement morgue at St. Bart's Hospital. It seemed that someone had inconveniently been murdered while Molly had been attending her Halloween party, and DI Greg Lestrade was handling the matter. As was often the case, he had called on the world's only consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, who had immediately deemed it necessary to spoil another one of his pathologist's weekend evenings. But, since this party seemed to be taking her in a direction she did not want to go, she quickly made her apologies and left, not upset at all.

Sherlock and John Watson were already at the morgue when Molly arrived, having hitched a ride with the ambulance which had delivered the corpse in question. John had turned to greet her as she walked in, but Sherlock had merely grunted to acknowledge her presence. John continued to speak as she removed her coat. "Sorry about this, Molls. Mary told me you were at a party. I hope you weren't…..Wow!"

Molly had not felt in the least self conscious at the party, but now, in the cold business like environment of the facility, she began to blush. It was not an outfit John had ever expected to see on his friend. She was dressed as a pirate, and a very sexy pirate at that! A red and white striped miniskirt which barely covered the essentials, a midriff blouse tied under her breasts, with a black lacy bra showing a bit. She wore fishnet hose, and tall pirate style boots which reached above her knees. Molly was now wishing that she had kept her coat on until she reached her office, where she could find a labcoat to cover the racy costume. If she was blushing this badly at John's attentions, she could only imagine what would happen if Sherlock had a reaction.

At the sound of John's exclamation, Sherlock's attention was drawn from the dead body to the living one crossing the expanse of the lab. He turned to look at the pathologist, and didn't utter a word, merely stared.

"Well, what do you think, Sherlock? You've always liked pirates, haven't you? Didn't you want to be one when you were a kid?" John snickered teasingly. He got no response, just a continued stare.

Molly stopped in her tracks to see what was causing John's amusement, but all she could see is a statuelike Sherlock Holmes looking in her direction. "What's the matter with him, John? Mind palace?"

"I don't think this reaction is anything nearly as cerebral as a visit to the old mind palace, Molly! I think it has more to do with your pirate booty…"

"John!", Molly laughed and shook her head disbelievingly.

"Or maybe it's your treasure chest?" John was evidently very proud of his admittedly awful puns. He then turned to his best friend to continue the teasing. "Wanna get caught in those fishnets, mate?" he asked, not even trying to hide his amusement.

Sherlock seemed to shake his head to bring himself out of his trance like state. "John, perhaps we should take our leave. Dr. Hooper has a lot of work to do. I'm sure she will keep us informed." And with those few words, he turned on his heel and walked toward the exit, leaving Molly a bit stunned. But as John joined his friend on his departure, she could hear the shorter man say, "Looks like Victoria let her in on the secret, too, Sherlock!" And the detective, to Molly's surprise, groaned.

Sherlock Holmes was not a happy man. He clutched his Belstaff around him as he walked the long corridor to the hospital exit. He admired Molly Hooper, he knew that. He valued her, she counted. He always pictured her in a pristine white lab coat, or a series of overly colorful jumpers, or bright print dresses. This was the attire she wore as she walked the corridors of his mind palace. Now she would forever be pictured as a pirate pinup girl, with a chest bigger than he supposed, a waist smaller that he believed, and hips that were damned near perfect. Not to mention the lovely red lips, and the creamy thighs encased in…._Oh, good lord! snap out of it, man!_ he thought to himself. _Not here, not now!_ As there was no convenient cold shower which he could utilize, he hailed the first cab he could find and, accompanied by Dr. Watson, made his way quickly to Baker Street.

By the time they had arrived at the flat Sherlock had regained his composure, and convinced himself that he was more than ready for John's jibes.

"So, Sherlock, that was quite a reaction to Molly's costume, mate! Care to comment?"

"As I recall, it was you making the borderline lewd remarks about her attire, John."

"Lewd? No, all in good fun! You were the one who looked as if his heart had stopped."

"It was the shock, John. Nothing more."

"Shock? We dragged her away from a Halloween party. I told you that. An adult Halloween party, Sherlock. Did you expect her to be dressed as a nun? This is the one time of year when perfectly respectable woman can dress like complete sluts, and get away with it, all in the spirit of the holiday. I love it! Maybe even more than Christmas!" John laughed.

"I don't do holidays, John. You know that."

"Maybe you should. Evidently Molly does, and does them quite well, I must say!"

"John, you're a married man. You're not supposed to notice such things."

"Of course, I still notice such things. I just don't want Mary to notice that I notice such things. And if I notice that she's noticing that I notice…"

"Please, John, my head!"

"Alright! I'm married, I'm not supposed to notice. You're not married, you're supposed to notice!"

"John, how often have I told you that I consider myself married to my work?"

"When was the last time 'your work' put you in need of a cold shower, mate? Don't think I didn't notice how tightly you had that coat clutched around you!"

"How observant. You have at last observed that I am a healthy male. Only took you years and years to do so."

"I've noticed before, mate!" John was now in full snickering mode. "The questionable sites on your laptop browsing history. The magazines under the mattress. And the godawful long showers. But never a full-blown, almost lost it episode like tonight, mate. Do something about it!"

"And what do you suggest?"

"Join the human race instead of observing it. Loosen up, have fun, kiss a girl! Get a life, for god's sake!" John rose from his seat as Sherlock considered his words. "And now, having noticed Molly a bit to much, I'm going home to notice my wife some! Good-night, and happy Halloween."

"It's not actually Halloween yet, is it?"

"No, that's Monday. Claire is really looking forward to the party at the child-care facility at the hospital. Costumes and all. Wait to you see what she dressing up as!" John smiled as he thought of his toddler daughter, and her excitement at the coming holiday. "She's convinced she looks just like the real thing!"

"What is that, John?"

"You'll see. Remember, you told Mary you'd be over for takeaway before we take the kid trick or treating, chum."

"Yes, yes. See you Monday, then." And, making his farewells, John went on his way home to "notice" his wife.

Sherlock Holmes sat in his chair contemplating his life. He would have retreated to his mind palace to do this, but he feared that one Molly Hooper was walking the halls, brandishing a cutlass, in a skimpy costume and with a come hither smile. Trying to avoid the inevitable physical effect of such an encounter, he chose to do his thinking with his conscious mind, thank you. Perhaps John was right. Maybe it was time to join the real world. He had denied himself the comfort of a home and companionship for far too long. Finding that this had not affected his friend in any detrimental way, he thought that perhaps he himself could remain just as intelligent, just as observant, and just as dedicated to his work. But with a side order of happiness. He was now determined to try, and he would start immediately. He would get into the spirit of the holiday, embrace its macabre aspects, and show everyone, especially his Molly, that he could embrace change, and embrace her as well.

It was already dark when Molly went to visit the creche at St. Bart's to pick up Claire Watson as a favor to her father. John had been held up while doing rounds upstairs, and the staff at the facility were eager to get home to their own families. Molly had shown up a bit early, in plenty to time to see all the little ghouls, goblins, and ghosties gathering up their treats and taking their leave. She smiled at a diminutive Doctor Who, playfully shrieked at a mini mummy, shrank in pretended fear from a sparkling vampire. But most of her attention was lavished on a little girl whose blond curls had been sprayed black. She wore an oversized coat, a deerstalker hat, and carried a large magnifying glass. She looked almost as adorable, in Molly's eyes, as the real thing.

"Look, Aunt Molly. I'm Uncle Sherlock!"

"Oh, Claire, you're much prettier!"

"I'm not supposed to be pretty. People said I should be scary for Halloween, but Uncle Sherlock isn't scary!"

"I wouldn't say that, exactly, love. He's very scary to bad guys," as Molly said that, she added, to herself, _and just about everybody else if he's having a bad day!_ She then scooped the child up in her arms and carried her out, returning to the morgue to await John's arrival. Some people may have considered the morgue a strange place to entertain a child, but she had already spent many an hour there, and the people who were 'sleeping' in the icy drawers did not bother her at all. Besides, it made great fodder for her future psychotherapy!

The business day at the hospital was winding down, and the basement, especially, was pretty much deserted. Molly and Claire sat in the office, the former attending to some paperwork, while the the later gazed at a cartoon on the computer screen. Quiet had descended over the morgue. The thought occurred to Molly that it was as silent as the proverbial grave, broken only by the occasional giggle from her charge as she found something particularly amusing flicker across the screen of the pathologist's laptop. It was at this time that Molly noticed that the lights in the morgue had been extinguished, the only illumination coming through the glass door from the hallway, and that which was spilling out of her still well-lit office. Then she heard a sound, as if someone had bumped into a metal surface in the dark. She calmly told Claire to stay put, then rooted through her purse to find a cannister which Greg Lestrade had given her. She walked into the morgue, cursing the electrical setup. Due to a poor design, she would have to cross the entire facility in order to turn the lights on, something she had done on many previous occasions. But tonight, Halloween, in the dark, and with the uncanny feeling that someone was watching, she began to feel the icy fingers of fear curl around his spine. She heard a shuffling sound off to her right, and thought she saw a shadow moving. Was that breathing she heard? She was distracted for a brief second by Claire's giggling from the office, and when she returned her attention to her trip across the room, a dark masked figure loomed in front of her. Without thought, she aimed the cannister at the figure and pushed the bottom.

The formerly threatening apparition was now doing a dance, hopping from one foot to the other, howling epithets, and rubbing his eyes. John picked that moment to arrive, turning on the lights as soon as he entered, only to find his best friend crying, and wheezing, and coughing. Tears were streaming from his eyes, and snot from his nose. His beautiful blue/green eyes were covered by flaming red lids.

"Oh my god, what's happened? Where's Claire?" John asked excitedly.

A small voice queried, "Is Uncle Sherlock crying?"

Sherlock regained enough control to reply, "Yes, love, I'm crying. Aunt Molly has made me very sad, indeed." And then he shot the pathologist a look that might have killed a lesser person. All it did in this case was make her cry, too.

Molly had dropped the cannister, and lunged at the detective, trying to pull his hands away from his eyes. She took some tissues from her pocket and tried to rub gently at his closed lids, but the tears kept pouring out through, and the coughing continued.

John, in the meantime, had shifted into doctor mode and picked up the discarded cannister. "Geez, Molls, CS gas! This is police issue only! Greg give it to you?"

"Yes, for protection. I didn't know it was Sherlock! I was frightened, there was Claire…"

But John wasn't listening anymore, having gone in search of some soap and water to start, and then possibly an alkaline solution to counteract the effects of the spray. It would wear off soon enough on its own, but there was no harm in helping it along. Sherlock looked like he was really suffering, and Molly even more so.

"Daddy, why did Aunt Molly make Uncle Sherlock cry?"

" 'Cause he 's a real git, honey!"

John now went to work on his friend, washing his face thoroughly, then applying a soothing solution. When the detective could finally open his eyes again, John looked directly into them and asked, "What the bloody hell were you thinking, Sherlock? And what the bloody hell are you supposed to be?"

"I'm a vampire, John!" Sherlock now smiled. "See the fangs?"

"So, dressed entirely in black, wearing a mask, and fangs, to boot, hair slicked back, you snuck up on an unprotected woman in a very dark room, a morgue full of cadavers, in fact, and pounced on her?" John shook his head. "I repeat, what were you thinking?"

"I was getting into the spirit of the holiday, John. Joining the real world, as you suggested, remember? I was expecting her to give an attractive little squeal of fright, realize what a devastatingly attractive member of the undead I was, and throw herself in my arms! I certainly didn't expect to be assaulted with the fiery breath of doom!"

"You're just bloody lucky she grabbed the CS gas, and not a scalpel, you bloody idiot!"

"Uncle Sherlock can't be an idiot, Daddy. You always tell me how smart he is!"

"Smart people can be idiots, too! And don't contradict me. I'm your father!"

"Great example of paternal logic, John. Teaching the child…"

"Shut up, Sherlock. Perhaps you'll do better with your own kids!"

"I'm sure I will, John. Whenever Molly decides she's ready to give it a try."

Molly had been hovering about apologetically, and now took over administering to the detective's inflamed eyes and face. She kept patting his face with the solution John had recommended, as Sherlock Holmes stood with his arms around her waist. They barely noticed when John Watson approached them one again.

"Here, maybe you two should try these!" John then handed Molly a set of scrubs, and Sherlock a very brief hospital gown, open at the back. "These costumes may work out a bit better, at least. Molly can be the nubile doctore, and you, Sherlock, can be the naughty patient." He winked at them both as he gathered his daughter in his arms to make his way home. "I'll give Mary your regrets, Sherlock, as I assume you'll be otherwise occupied this evening."

John chuckled as he left them, stopping only long enough to give the detective some parting advice, "I'd watch myself if she asks you to turn your head and cough, mate!"

Sherlock looked inquiringly at the woman still in his arms. "I'll show you later," she said with a smirk as she moved to close the space between her lips and his.


End file.
